


The White Haze

by violue



Series: The Warmth of Seraphina's Flame [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Captivity, M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-31
Updated: 2018-12-31
Packaged: 2019-10-01 01:57:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,285
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17235176
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/violue/pseuds/violue
Summary: Silence breaks iron chains.





	The White Haze

**Author's Note:**

> Beta'd by Kris :)

Winchester hates that Castiel won’t speak, absolutely hates it.

It’s a source of amusement for Castiel, an emotion that remains in very short supply on this seemingly endless sea voyage. The vessel they’re in was built to endure storms and arrows, and not at all built for speed, or so Winchester tells him.

Today he is talkative, irritatingly so. He’s sitting across from Castiel’s cell once again, explaining every facet of the ship they’re on, called The Impala. Once it belonged to Winchester’s father, who gifted it to him upon completion of his warrior training.

“I’ll be honest, this ain’t the life I’d have picked for myself. Leading a battalion, being away from my family for months at a time… can’t see how anyone _would_ want that. But I’m good at what I do, Blue Eyes, and sometimes a man don’t get to pick his path in life.”

Castiel wants to tell Winchester that his words are, as Balthazar would say, _horseshit,_ that there’s always a choice, but he doesn’t. Partly because he’s not speaking to this man at all, but also because when he really thinks about it, he didn’t choose a warrior’s life either. Given who his mother was, Castiel’s path in life was set from birth.

“Don’t know what I’m gonna tell my father when I get home. Coming back with a damn Enochian soulmate sure wasn’t the mission.”

Castiel wants to know what the mission was, exactly, but he of course says nothing.

“Dad’s never much liked Enochians, says your kind are all cold and unfeeling, barely human…” Winchester looks pointedly at Castiel, _daring_ him to speak. “Decent fighters, though. The lot of you. If my men weren’t the best warriors from here to Cherubian’s Fields, maybe you’d have killed us all.”

Castiel’s fists tighten in his shackles.

“I saw you on that beach, you know. Before we caught you. You were the best of them. I was disappointed when I saw Gordon get a sword to your throat. Didn’t realize you’d survived until later. It was an idiotic mistake out there, you ought to be dead.” Winchester narrows his eyes, something ugly and cunning crossing his face. “What caused your distraction, I wonder?”

Winchester can’t know Castiel had a brother on the field, but the mocking tone still stokes rage in Castiel’s body.

“You gotta tell me, what makes an _obviously_ seasoned warrior just stare off into the distance like a dim-witted child, right in the middle of a battle?”

Men Castiel’s known his entire life died on that beach, and this man speaks of the battle with total irreverence. Was he trained by drunkards and apes?

“Wow, look at you. I strike a nerve?” Winchester is smirking a little. This is intentional cruelty, to provoke Castiel into speaking. If he telegraphs his moves in a battle of swords the way he does in a battle of wits, it’s a miracle he completed any warrior training.

Unfortunately, it _is_ working. Castiel is angry. Angry that men led by this fool were able to overpower Balthazar’s garrison. Angry that his soulmate is this thoughtless invader. Angry that he might never know whether Gabriel made it off that beach alive. Castiel’s entire life has been levelled, and this man taunts him.

Castiel’s vision shivers, starts to go white around the edges.

Oh, no. Not this. Not here. On a battlefield he welcomes it, but not here, not now.

The look on Winchester’s face goes from mocking to what might be genuinely concerned. “Woah, are you—”

The white takes over Castiel’s vision entirely, then his hearing, then his _everything,_ a fog clogging up every sense until it’s all he knows.

Time passes, whether it’s seconds or hours, there’s no way to be certain, but suddenly the haze is gone, and Castiel is on his back, staring up at the newly cracked and splintered ceiling of his cell.

Every muscle in his body aches, his heart is beating inhumanly fast, he’s gasping for air. The thick, iron chain joining his shackles is broken. He summons the strength to dig his elbows into the wood beneath him, lifting himself so he can survey the damage.

Half of the bars for his cell have been ripped out, and one bar has been shoved through the floorboards, enough that water is coming up from somewhere. There are broken planks scattered all over his cell, along with hay from the mattress he apparently tore to shreds.

Winchester, of course, is unharmed. He’s standing inside the cell, leaning against the bars that haven’t been ripped out of the floor. He’s tense, arms crossed, jaw tight. They make eye contact, and something like recognition crosses his face. His posture relaxes, just a little.

“I’ve never…” Winchester’s voice actually cracks. “I mean… part of me always thought that berserkers were just stupid _legends,_ not… but you _clearly…_ ”

Certainly not the first time Castiel has heard that. He lets himself sink onto his back.

“There ain’t an excuse in this world I can offer for what I said,” Winchester says somberly. “It was wrong. Dishonorable. I mean I ain’t got much honor in general, but… I got carried away, which… well I guess you’d know something about that, being a berserker and all. Surprised you haven’t torn the limbs off every man on this vessel already, really.”

The white haze is not something Castiel can _control_ , though he supposes Winchester wouldn’t know that, not if he thought berserkers weren’t real.

“I don’t know what I’m gonna do with you, Blue Eyes. An Enochian berserker. Maybe I shouldn’t have brought you.”

Castiel lifts his head long enough to glare.

“Yeah, well you tell me, if things were reversed, what would you have done with _me_? Just sent your very own soulmate on his merry way? Never to be thought of again?”

Castiel, of course, does not reply.

“My father’s gonna have my damn head,” Winchester says mournfully, and Castiel isn’t certain whether or not he means that literally. Surely a father would not have his own son decapitated.

“Bad enough your scouts spotted us, bad enough I lost a third of my men on that beach, bad enough we didn’t get what we came for…”

Castiel lifts his head again, staring intently at Winchester, waiting for him to elaborate.

Winchester cocks up one eyebrow. “Yeah, right. Soulmate or not, you’re the enemy. Not gonna tell you my damn mission.”

Naturally.

“You may not realize this, Blue Eyes, but we’re the good guys here, not you.”

That is a bold statement, coming from the man who lead the _invasion_ of Castiel’s homeland. Oh, how Castiel would love to face Winchester on the battlefield, hands unbound, bodies of his fellow warriors not strewn about, Seraphina’s cursed flame not there to hold him back. But he cannot have those things, and it is silly to wish for them. All he can do is lie on this splintered floor and let sleep claim him.

  


*

  


When he wakes, Castiel is shackled again, locked in a different cell, one he _didn’t_ tear to pieces. Things are different, though. The shackles are joined with a longer chain than before, offering more freedom of movement. The straw mattress has been replaced with a bed of animal furs and a pillow stuffed with feathers. There’s a wash basin secured in the corner, filled just enough so that the water doesn’t slosh out as the ship rocks with the ocean’s waves. There’s a small pile of books next to a bowl full of dried meat and hunks of bread.

An apology, perhaps, maybe an attempt to curry favor. Either way, Castiel can’t help but feel a small amount of gratitude.

  


How very irritating.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I still don't know what this is, or if I'm going somewhere with it. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯


End file.
